Butterflies and Silk
by The Fifth Champion
Summary: Life was never easy for Prince Zuko. It only gets harder after Ursa’s strange disappearance, abandoning him to the merciless clutches of his father and sister. Not to mention his newlyacquired stepmother, so different from his mom…


**A/N: **Hello! Wow, this is the first not-a-oneshot story I've been posting in a long time. Now, I know on my other chapter stories I had a tendency to be—less than persistent, but I promise that I'm going to put _a lot_ of work into this. So, please, be kind and **REVIEW!**

**Butterflies and Silk **

**(Plus Other Fine Things) **

_Dear Mother, _

_I dreamt of you last night, down by the gardens, with your long cape flying in the wind. _

_Everything was different. _

_Your cloak fell around your slim body in velvety black billows, melding with the night air, stirring your loose tresses. It was like the dark had swallowed you; like you were a prisoner trapped in an inky fortress. The crooked silhouette of the cedar towered behind you—with its low-hanging branches and gnarled roots—like a deranged monster raising its arms to the heavens. _

_Only the pond was unchanged. It lay still and unbroken at your feet…like a prostrate mirror glistening in the cold white reflections of the moonlight. Although no turtle-ducks glided across its surface, no tiny fish darted beneath the waters, there was something alive about the pond. It throbbed and hummed and seemed to emanate a potent feeling I cannot describe. _

_Such a vivid dream it had been! So startlingly focused and real, that upon waking up I had almost taken it as reality. It shames me, Mother, to admit it—but tears had welled in my eyes upon remembering the truth; bitter tears that are unbecoming of a Crown Prince. I tried to be strong, tried to think of you, but that only made my eyes sting and ooze more. _

_What happened, Mother? Where are you now? _

_Dreams are such wicked trickery. My sleeping mind had been an empty canvas, my downcast emotions a pallet of murky colors…together they had painted an image both dark and frightening, teeming with unseen demons and rabid beasts, laced with misshapen objects and gangly figures. You were the only thing that was familiar. You and the breathing white pond. _

_I remember your face, Mother, in my dream: It had been marble, beautiful but hard, empty. Your skin was taut and white over your cheeks, a cold pallor that did not suit you. Yours lips neither lifted nor frowned, remaining still in their unfeeling pink line. And your eyes…your eyes! The warm glimmer that suffused them was dead, forgotten, leaving blank hollow orbs in your sockets. You had become a statue. Something elegant and pretty but also stony and lifeless._

_It was very unsettling. _

_And yet…when I saw you I could recall nothing but a glorious rapture that filled me to the brim. What did it matter if you seemed cold and emotionless? It was enough that you were here, back home, with me. How long had I lingered at this place, listening for the quiet rustle of your wine-colored skirts? How many nights had I prayed to hear the soothing lull of your voice once more?_

_The spirits had answered my prayers! _

_You knelt before the pond at your feet, liquid glass, and when you touched it the surface quivered slightly. It distorted your reflection, making everything uncertain, unreadable—and that was when I made my mistake. _

_I called out to you, in a high desperate cry that cracked in my throat. You did not answer me, though a single tear had curved down your cheek, glistening like a dying ember. A horrible silence followed, hushing the whispery wind, an intangible mantle falling on my shoulders with the weight of my error. _

_I now realize that those images had been a mere figment of my imagination, just undulating wishes and fears twisting to the will of my fears and fantasies…but the pain I felt was real. It was real, Mother, realer than the icy disbelief that had engulfed me the morning after your departure. _

_You see, the moment the word "Mom!" left my lips, you disappeared in a wisp of white smoke. _

_I awoke crying. _

_I have not yet forgotten who I am, _

_Son of Ozai, Son of Ursa, _

_Prince of Our Nation, _

_Zuko_

_&&&&&_

**Year of Red and White Satin **

**Chapter One **

He lay among the lush greenery of the garden, thinking.

The fields sprawled out before him in a seemingly never-ending display of emerald grass, dotted with the fine rich colors of opened blossoms, the deep reds of roses and buttery yellows of daffodils. Lilies grouped around him in fragrant, exotic thickets, their petals falling like long, white-fringed ribbons. Their floral scents were heavy and intoxicating in the shadowy twilight. Grand oaks jutted proudly, strong limbs splayed wide, thick trunks stately and dignified. The frail willows stood by too, drooped in humbleness, their swooping branches brushing against the moist soil. A broad wall circled the vast interior—some pieces remaining bronze and glistening, much of it choked in a tangled pattern of vine and ivy.

In particular, however, he had lain besides the little pond, listening to the quiet _beat-beat _of turtle-duck feet in the water. It was a small respite from the everlasting stretch of grass, as the floor here was tiled and fitted with milky white slabs.

It was also here that he had come to a very solid conclusion, as the china-blue sky faded to a dusky purple; here that he had finally unraveled his muddled thoughts into a single response—

Prince Zuko was nothing like his sister.

Azula was forceful and confident, yet poised and brimming with precision. Her bending was swift, meticulous, and undeniably perfect; never a single strand of silky hair escaped from its secured bun. Her dancing fingertips crackled with electric fire, her fair features aglow with its blue radiance, glinting off her royal hairpiece in slanting rays.

His own bending was fumbled and careless, almost tentative as he struggled through the simplest of stages. Moves that Azula flowed through with such liquid grace were shaky and flawed throughout his own renditions. Fire spurted clumsily from his fingertips, tiny spits of flame that died immediately, and he possessed no royal hairpiece for them to glint off of.

"You have strong will-power, my Prince," Sifu Jian once noted briskly. "I believe that is what has gotten you so far in your lessons. It is an admirable quality, indeed."

Unwillingly, Zuko felt his jaw hardened. He knew the old firebender, with his brusque manner and laconic talk, had meant only to quail the boy's frustrated thoughts—but the remark had instead fueled his inner humiliation. The man spent such a lengthy amount of time simply correctly him on unsteady stances, jerky movements…even basics as primitive as _breathing _were brought to his attention! And all the while, Azula's face had haunted him, her smiles slight and jeering.

Was mere determination his _only_ admirable quality?

Heavy lids slid over sore eyes. He had just returned from one such training session, and fatigue as well as disappointment was weighing heavy on his stiff muscles. He felt his heart throb, swiftly, rapidly, almost in time with the pulsating ache of his skull. He had tried very hard today—too hard, according to Uncle Iroh—who had surveyed the entire scene over the steaming rim of his teacup.

"You should rest," he had intoned seriously. "A man needs his rest."

But Zuko did not want to rest. He wanted to ebb away his sister's spiteful jeers, always ringing with such terrible clarity in his ears, the pain like a knife in his chest. He wanted to hurl the hateful words back in her laughing face, see her gape and stammer at his success. He wanted to hear Sifu Jian, in his low gravely voice, murmur about how talented Zuko had suddenly become.

If not anything else, he wanted—_yearned_—to see Lord Ozai's stonily immobile face lift in the subtle appraisal he bestowed to Azula, and only Azula. The slight arc of his thin, white mouth that was worth every drop of sweat, every bit of blood, every moment spent clawing towards his goal. This longing that strained his heart was too vital to be a desire, too powerful a drive to be a mere want. It was a necessity. Something he needed more than food, more than water, more than even air. He needed it—_needed it—_

The slight whistle of wind brought him back to reality.

'Well, I can relax now, Uncle.' he thought, losing himself to the quiet rustle of the swaying grass. His heart thumped and pounded in his ears, growing level and soothing like the patter of some ancient drum; it mingled with the constant paddle of turtle-duck flippers, echoing chatter of cicadas, and far-off clomping of feet in the palace courtyards.

His mind hazed with oncoming sleep…

"Here, _again,_ ZuZu?"

The surprise made him jolt, like being shocked with a splash of ice water. He cracked a single gold eye.

"Go away, Azula," he mumbled; his voice thick with annoyance.

"Go away!" the girl shrilled with mock horror. "I find you lying on the hard floor like a dirty peasant, and you have the nerve to tell _me _to go away? You're not in the position to be barking orders."

Zuko frowned, defeated, as he glanced up at her. She was dragging her fingertips over the bark of the cedar, her eyes dangerous pools of sparkling amber. Somewhat apprehensively, he wondered why her lips were quirked in that devil-smirk.

"What do you want?" he finally relented, rolling onto his sore side. "Can't you see I want to be alone?"

"If you wanted to be alone, you should have gone to your room," Azula retorted coolly. "Besides, don't you want to spend time together?"

But the words fell on deaf ears. Zuko was reaching out his tired, sweaty fingers, brushing them across the glassy surface of the water. He watched as the liquid quivered, then break into a series of silver ripples. It reminded him of someone, dipping her long slender finger into the pond, feeding the turtle-ducks—

_Mom. _Zuko felt his throat constrict, like a noose was being pulled tight about it.

"_Hello-o-o," _Azula cut in loudly. "I was talking to you! Don't you want to spend time together?"

Zuko glared at her, only to find the girl's face flowered in a dazzling, dimpled grin. Once it had shocked him that she could feign such genuine-looking gestures; now he realized they were simply a ploy to mask her true intentions beneath a cape of snowy-white innocence.

"What do you want?"

"Want?" Azula repeated; her voice a sweet drawl. "Nothing! By the way, how did your lessons go today? Sifu Jian says _I'm _progressing faster than any student he's ever had!"

Irritation flared in Zuko's gut. So _that _was what this was about.

"Get lost, Azula."

Her mask fell quickly, smoldering at her feet.

"You're just jealous!" she hissed. "I'm a better student then you are and everybody knows it! Uncle stopped by to watch you? He probably just wanted something to laugh at—you really should just give up, _ZuZu—"_

"I said get lost!" Zuko cried in a tone that was a little too broken to suggest indifference. "And _don't_ call me that!"

Her rebuke was a shrilly, patronizing giggle and a tongue peeping between parted lips. She cocked her head smugly, her pretty face a hateful thing, while her black bangs bobbed smoothly about her forehead.

"Why?" she crowed softly. "Does it remind you too much of Mom? That's why you're out here simpering, right? I heard you crying for her last night." A leer grew across her face as she began to mimic his words. "'Mom! Mom! Come back!' Funny thing is, both Dad and I have gotten over her disappearance…but then again, _true _royal doesn't go crying over missing mommies…"

Indignation bubbled hot and thick in Zuko's throat, flooding his mind with a rampage of hateful retorts. He couldn't breathe through the hard angry lump in his throat, stifling his breath to thin wheezes.

How _dare _she insult Mom! How dare she say no one missed her!

"Don't talk about Mom like that!" he shouted, his calves screaming as he jumped to his feet. "Of course Dad misses her—everyone does! The only thing that your _lack_ of caring proves is that your sick!"

Loathsome tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, but he held them back, relishing the taste of the words on his tongue. Azula looked stricken, if only for a moment, before regaining her poise and elegance. She opened her mouth curtly, but Zuko cut her off.

"I _don't_ want to hear your excuses!"

He felt himself trembling. A sick rage was simmering in the pit of his stomach, unfurling in nauseatingly hot tendrils throughout the rest of his cold body. He stared at this little girl before him, this girl he knew all his life, and realized he could never understand her. How erect she stood, her polished armor glinting; her crisp yellow eyes bright and unclouded with the grief his were misted with. Her mouth was firm and set, her soft pretty features arranged in an expression capable of fooling even the sharpest eye. She was balanced and confident and wry and completely unaffected by Ursa's departure.

As a glimpse of the woman's face flashed through his mind, the pain of loss swamped him. How could Azula act so cold and uncaring?

"I don't need your excuses," she was replying stiffly. "You were always so clingy and dependent on her. Whenever you screwed up, you would run crying and she'd fix everything with all her mushy lies."

Zuko thought he has lost his voice. When he found it, it was a mere scrape in his throat.

"Mom would never lie to me."

Azula's eyes flashed viciously. "Oh yes, she would! Do you think she really meant it when she said that you were someone who—what was it?—'keeps fighting even though it's hard'? She was just being a good mother. Obviously, she favored me and just pitied you."

The words were like deep, piercing stabs of a honed blade. He tried to discard them, deny them, but they pushed heavily against the walls of his disbelief, weakening them. A sudden sickness overtook him, blurring his mind and vision. Azula was lying. She had to be. And yet—and yet—

Perhaps Ursa had grown weary of fibbing, weary enough to pack her bags and flee. Perhaps everything had been a lie. Her image swelled in his mind's eye, so strong and motherly and full of love, and he knew he couldn't live if that was true.

_"Everything I've done, I've done to protect you." _

The effect was like being doused in a spring of cool water; a deep sense of relief and strength rose in his chest. Azula _was _lying. She knew nothing about Ursa's last visit to him, how her arms had hugged him so tightly, how passionately the final words had spilled from her lips, how heavy the look in her eyes had been.

"Are you going to cry?" Azula taunted, her arms crossed over her chest. "Mom would have expected it."

"_No," _Zuko spat. He imbued as much hate possible into the word. "I don't believe you. Nice try, though."

And he turned to walk away, the semblance of victory soothing the ache in his heart, when Azula's voice cried out—

"You know, Dad came by to watch me train today! I don't suppose he came by _you,_ did he?"

&&&&&&

The dress would simply never do.

Azalea sighed, smoothing down the creaseless silk skirts, and wished she had a better wardrobe. All her dresses seemed horrid, lacy things, plain with their lack of sashes and pearls, hanging limp and ugly on her frame.

Well—most of them, anyway. This particular dress _did _cling nicely to her slender body, the shimmering fabric resembling a bloody sunset strewn with tiny white stars. Loose sleeves hung on her delicate shoulders, exposing a long swanlike neck, and the soft silk fell in pretty ripples about her wrists. The first layer of her many skirts hung in a fine, thick fabric, while the claret ones that draped over it were gauzy and glittering. They swished and breezed gracefully about her figure as she moved.

"Apparel fit for the Spirits," her father would have murmured approvingly.

But—oh!—it was so dreadfully old, so dreadfully tactless after having worn it only a few months beforehand! And hadn't she just seen Rilika strutting about in a similar garment, showing off its ruffled hems? Azalea's powdered skin went taut at the thought. Never could she reveal herself in society after wearing the same dress as someone else! _Never!_

She gripped the slippery silk folds, about to pull the gown over her head, when she heard a swift rapt at the door.

"Come in," she called distractedly, preening her appearance in a large oval mirror. Her lips still needed to be painted a bloodier shade of crimson and her lids dashed with that iridescent purple dust. Her eyebrows had been tweezed to perfection, her skin lightly perfumed, but the sight of her unbound tresses frightened her. There was simply so _much _of it—these loose, abundant black curls that tumbled about her face in unruly ribbons!

And what was she to do with them? Loops? Braids? It was simply too much.

"I do hope it's you, Diyra. I want you to run down to the market and fetch me a new dress—"

"She shall do no such thing. You just received a new one last week, did you not?"

At the sound of these clipped tones, Azalea stilled, caught in her anxious flurry of bustle and motion. She straightened slowly, hesitantly, every slight movement now prolonged and performed with tentative care. Her eyes were thoughtful now, devoid of there cheer and bluster, gleaming as they tilted towards the doorway.

"Papa?" she asked softly.

"I would hope that you remembered your own father's voice. But then, perhaps war has dragged this old general out for too long."

Azalea laughed out loud, running to the grizzled old man in a whirl of sparkling skirts. The guise of pensive doubt fell away from her face like a slack veil; lay unused and forgotten as her arms wrapped around her father's neck.

"Oh, Papa!" she chorused delightedly. "Oh, Papa, Papa, Papa!"

General Longwei, always an awkward, clumsy man at such things, simply placed his sturdy hand upon his daughter's head and smiled. He listened to the woman sputter happily for a moment, then lifted her chin with a gentle prod of his thumb, eyes twinkling.

The man looked hard and weathered in his highly-polished armor, his grayed hair bristly in its topknot, his golden collar glimmering importantly in the candlelight. Yes, most definitely, Longwei was a severe and imposing general—but his eyes told otherwise. On battlefield they had been known to snap vicious fire, flare with ferocity strong enough to send its opponents reeling, but now they were soft and tender with fatherly affection. Azalea knew things about her father that his loyalist troops could never know. Longwei may have seemed cynical and unfeeling, but buried beneath the front was a heart softer than pudding.

"Papa!" she laughed once more. "What are you doing home so early? I thought they needed you on the warfront!"

"Ah, the warfront can wait," he scoffed in his rich brogue. "I wanted to see my daughter on her special night."

He took a step back; still gripping her shoulders, and ran his scrupulous gaze up and down her form.

A small intake of breath.

"By the head of the Sun Spirit herself, you truly look like a bride!"

Azalea laughed accordingly, though her eyes were somewhat less playful as they rolled in her sockets, her gaze slanted and affectionate yet piercing through spidery lashes.

"You know I don't want to marry yet."

Longwei hummed in amusement, though a dark note was seeded deep within the chuckle, suppressed and quiet but still very much there. It made Azalea sigh openly. She knew that note—it was the same aggravated, exasperated note his voice carried whenever she brushed off his remarks about marriage.

'Why is it so important to him?' she huffed inwardly. 'Marriage doesn't seem fun at all. It's all about responsibility and seriousness and being confined to a house. Oh sure, _weddings_ are exciting, but the glamour wears off as soon as the party ends. The Spirits know that _Mother_ never has any fun…'

But Longwei seemed determine to force the subject.

"Who knows," he mentioned carefully. "Perhaps you'll meet someone at the Royal Court. A nice man."

_Royal Court. _The moment the words left his lips, all traces of marriage were wiped from her mind, replaced with the utmost thrill of his prospect. It was an excitement so absolute her body quaked with it, made her heart flutter in rapid, quick succession.

She was going to sing at the Royal Court…with the Fire Lord as her audience! Chills skittered up and down her spine. After years of intense training, of clawing her way bitterly to the top, her talents were finally going to be recognized by the most prominent figure in all the Fire Nation. There were times when she thought she must be dreaming, that her surreal reality was merely an unconscious fantasy, and she would wake up at any moment, dazed and sore with disappointment.

_She _was going to the Royal Court!

"Oh," Azalea giggled, struggling to force her thoughts to the current situation. "I'll be too busy performing. I'm Head Vocalist, after all. They'll be expecting my talents to be topnotch."

Longwei laughed good-naturally.

"They will, darling, they will. You have the most beautiful voice in all the Fire Nation. Only that could have gotten you this far."

She fought to keep her head clear as pride swelled within it. Staring through a thrilled haze at her father, she never thought she could feel so warm and lightheaded and utterly drunk with happiness.

Her gown-less predicament brought her back to reality with a rude bump.

"Oh!" she gasped abruptly. "I can't go to the Royal Court in this old rag! Papa, look at it—it's—it's old-fashioned. Positively _drab! _How can you expect me to wear it?"

She ruffled the glittering skirts in a flourish, her upturned face weak and desperate with longing. Longwei loosed a sigh, running his calloused fingers through his hair.

"Azalea, why do you bother with your looks, if you're not even bent on catching a man?"

The woman pursed her lips stubbornly, eyes ablaze.

"Papa! Shame on you! What am I to live for, if not my looks and my dresses and perfumes! They're what makes going to parties and banquets fun—and what would life be without parties and banquets? You _will _buy me a new gown, won't you?"

Longwei relented, pressing his warm lips to her forehead before patting her cheek lovingly.

"Alright, my darling, a new dress it shall be. White lace or red satin?"

But as Azalea gabbled eagerly, her lips a blur of motion and her brows raised high, Longwei wondered how he could force an army to its knees but never once up his daughter in a battle of wills.

The food, as usual, was tasteless weight in his mouth—almost unappetizing as it slid down his reluctant throat into his even more reluctant stomach. He felt his belly churn as the contents dropped into them, his mouth clamped shut to discourage them from bubbling back up.

A grin twisted Zuko's lips, so wry it felt more like a grimace. He could just imagine the Head Chef, his huge mustache bristling, exploding into fit a rage at such a description. The potbellied cook had likely spent many hours meddling with ingredients, sprinkling delicate pinches of season, stirring and flipping with care, and personally applying the perfect amount of heat so that the meats sizzled heavenly.

And Zuko could not eat one bite. It was an ironic sort of humor.

"Nephew? Something is troubling you?"

Iroh's low rasping voice broke swiftly through his sardonic musings. Zuko stiffened in surprise, his insides freezing and throat tightening with embarrassment. He was unable to stop his eyes from flicking over to the empty chair at the end of the table.

_Father skipped dinner again…_

Iroh's lips pursed knowingly. "Ah. I see."

Color flooded Zuko's face, a bright humiliated flush that made his insides shrivel shamefully; his eyes fall rapidly to his untouched plate. Besides him, he heard Azula chortle, her face as poised and polite and unreadable as always.

Iroh laid his gaze upon Zuko; his eyes narrowed in a hard, thorough look that seemed to pierce the boy's stoic front. They then skidded in Azula's direction, forcing her giggles to die immediately. Zuko shifted in his seat, wishing fervently that his uncle either did not realize the cause of his distress or would have the compassion not to comment further.

A small smile teased Iroh's lips.

"Too excited, eh? Me too. This Azalea of the Murasaki Family is said to be the grandest singer in all the Fire Nation—very young, also, and beautiful. I am intrigued about meeting her. Your father was a bit skeptical, but I insisted."

Relief as cool and clear as spring-water poured over Zuko. He met Iroh's gaze appreciatively, his unease ebbing away. He should have realized that his uncle would never pry while Azula's keen ears were pricked.

Azula, however, was pouting. She obviously had hoped Zuko would already be in tears at this point.

"Father has the right to be skeptical, doesn't he? I mean, he's busy fighting a war. He doesn't have time to listen to silly ladies sing."

Her tone was sugary, lifted in innocent questioning, but Zuko caught the scoff smothering beneath the poisonous sweetness. He shot Azula a withering glare, which she returned with a swift kick to his shin beneath the table.

"Ow!"

His only reply was a stifled, "shush!"

Iroh evidently heard the slight jeer in her voice, for he was lounging back in his chair, laughing easily and good-naturally.

"Sometimes, even the busiest of rulers have to listen to silly ladies sing, my niece. When one does not relax, his thoughts become frenzied, his actions staggered, and his labor will be completed tiredly. The work of a haggard man may not be a lavishing as that of one well-contended."

Azula blinked at this, her delicate chin settled on little white palms.

She muttered softly, "I still think it's a waste of time."

"Azula!" Zuko snapped instinctively, turning wide angry eyes upon her. "Don't talk to Uncle like that!"  
Azula's response was quick, sharp, and as fleetingly uttered as a thrown dart. It clouted him directly in the chest, where it burrowed deep into his heart, cold and icy and painful. A vicious remark, a contemptuous one, spoken through lips twisted in a sneer.

"Who do you think you are—_Mom?" _

Zuko dropped his gaze to his plate, shaking visibly, as the words washed over him.

"Someone has to remember her."

His voice was rigid.

"Hah!" Azula barked harshly. "You're the reason Mom _left, _you sad excuse for a—"

_"Enough!" _Iroh broke in, slashing cleanly across Azula's intended tirade. The gentle twinkle had died in his eyes, his face cut into hard, severe lines. His lips were compressed in a thin downward curve. Even Azula fell meek and pale beneath the man's fiery glare.

"I…I apologize, Uncle," she stammered with feigned sheepishness. "I didn't mean it. I was just—was just—not thinking…"

Zuko tried to gulp back the lump in his throat.

"Me—me too, Uncle…"

He saw Iroh's expression soften slightly, the intenseness fading somewhat from his eyes as he eased back against his chair. He pressed the pads of his fingertips to his temple, eyes closed as he inhaled a long steady breath.

"Quite alright, children," he spoke tiredly, haltingly, his voice devoid of the merry lilt that made it so pleasant. "But you must understand. Princess Ursa's…disappearance…had nothing to do either of you. You must not blame yourselves—_or _others. Understood?"

Zuko's glance darted rapidly from his plate to Iroh's face, but it was bowed and unresponsive, no emotion riddled into his aging features, no hidden truths leaking from his downcast eyes.

Zuko's heart hungered—_starved_—to learn the cryptic details of his mother's departure, but his uncle had remained stonily taciturn about the matter. It was an unspoken command that lay between them, not to mention either Ursa or Lu Ten, one so taut and stressed that Zuko dare not try to break it.

When Iroh had returned home from the warfront, so haggard and grief-stricken he was barely recognizable, Zuko had needed no persuasion to keep out of his way. The man had looked changed, different; his round face strangely hollow, even if folds of flesh still clung to his rounded cheeks. His beard scraggly, his eyes wild, he had refused to even acknowledge word of his son's death or tidings of regret. He drifted into solitude and prayed often in a stammering, tremulous whisper. Although Zuko understood Iroh's torment, such behavior unnerved him, and he had been unable to even muster a clinical "I'm sorry for your loss" to his face.

It had been during this delicate condition that Iroh received word of Ursa's absence—and was completely unhinged. The prince still didn't know what exactly happened; only that Iroh's prayer session had been disturbed with the news, snapping him out of his trancelike state, and he had stormed into his brother's chambers in a fit of rage.

As Zuko had lain with his pillow pressed over his head, muffling the furious yells that bounced and echoed down the corridor, he had found the whole scene rather bewildering.

Looking at Iroh now, Zuko felt unable to prod for any more information than that.

The dull grating of a plate being pushed across the glossy surface of the table brought him back to reality. Azula shot him a quick, nasty grin as she shoved her plate away, hopping gracefully to her feet.

"May I be excused, Uncle?" Her voice was casual. "I've eaten mostly everything and Sifu Jian wants to see me again."

Zuko felt his stomach clench in a painful knot.

"Certainly, Azula," Iroh muttered distractedly; his face was still and brooding.

They listened to the precise pattering of her footfalls die away as she made her way further down the polished hall. When a tentative silence veiled everything, Zuko spoke.

"Uncle?"

"Yes, Zuko?"

"Do you…do you think things will ever be normal again?"

Iroh lifted his head slowly, pensively, fixing his nephew with that same intense gaze that seemed to look through him; the heavy unyielding gaze of a man who has slogged all the way home only to find that he is fatherless as well as sonless, robbed of both his throne and birthright.

A shadow of his former self flickered across his solemn features.

"In time, my nephew, in time. For now, just focus on Lady Azalea's visit. Did I mention she was beautiful?"

&&&&&&&&&

Iroh had been right.

Azalea of the Murasaki Family was _indeed _beautiful.

Her skin was powder-white and completely unflawed, glistening softly in the dim orange firelight that suffused the chamber. Her eyes were tip-tilted, framed in curly black lashes, and were the most solid shade of gold he had ever seen. Her brows were delicate and demure, arced gracefully above the shimmering orbs. Her nose was slender, her lips crimson; her inky tresses twined around her skull in an elaborate assortment of curls and loops and braids.

She wore a wine-colored gown that clung, sleeveless, to her slim torso. Glinting white pearls had been embroidered along the neckline and waist in a weaving pattern; myriad skirts cascaded to the floor in fine, silken red folds heavy with ribbon and sashes. Her arms were bare, though a glittery shawl had been draped about them, gauzy and diaphanous.

She was…so different from his mother.

Princess Ursa—despite her royal blood—had always been a very simple woman, beautiful but quiet, serene. An aura of calm elegance hovered about her, like the soft gentle beauty of a forest at sunrise. She had been clad in a simple red robe; her long midnight locks left unbound on her shoulders. It was such a contrast from this sparkly, shimmering, opulent lady standing before them.

With a long sweep of her skirts, Azalea fell into a bow, her eyes fluttering as she did so. Her movements were light and graceful, though they did not contain the air of wisdom that Ursa's had held.

"My deepest gratitude," Azalea stated sincerely. "For allowing my vocalists and I this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A selection of our greatest songs has been chosen and prepared for this night."

As she rose from her bow, a long line of singers filed in through the double doors, forming a neat semicircle around her erect figure. All female, each one dropped into a delicate curtsy before taking her place in the human-crescent. Some clutched silver flutes whilst others hefted reasonably small harps. Zuko noted that, although they were all dressed prettily, no gown was nearly as extravagant Azalea's silk-and-pearl attire.

Azula snorted heavily.

"I bet that pretty little butterfly doesn't even know what firebending is."

Glancing down at Azalea's glasslike frame and batting eyelashes, Zuko was forced to agree.

"This first song is called 'Tidings of a Forgotten Dream,'" Azalea explained, as the vocalists began to hum and pluck at the fine strings of their harps. A few placed slender flutes to their lips and began to blow life into them. The Head Vocalist, however, remained silent—her eyes closed against the single note quivering throughout the chamber. Another liquid note was added to the first, then another, until the melody was rich and strong with momentum. Azalea's lashes wavered dramatically; then her eyes snapped open and flashed gold in the shadows.

She sang,

_"You catch a drop of amber light, _

_Caught up in a world so black, _

_And you think to yourself, _

_Perhaps this is my fallen dream? _

_Perhaps this is a forgotten dream…"_

Zuko hung on the edge of his seat, gripping it so hard his knuckles went white. How was this possible? Vaguely, he was aware of the young woman swaying and singing before him, but the entire world was suddenly lost in a haze of mellifluous sound.

Azalea's voice was clear and pure and completely overwhelming. It poured over him like the ringing of a million bells, flew through the still air in notes of purest gold and silver. It was light and delicate, yet someone sturdy with poignant emotion and flowering images. Her voice painted pictures, ethereal pictures, pictures so real and vivid he thought he could reach out and touch them.

It was not the voice a mere human.

So how was it…coming from the mouth of his frivolous, bubble-headed stranger?  
He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Amazing, isn't she?"

Zuko turned glazed eyes to his uncle, who had been restored to good cheer, his round stomach jiggling merrily as he laughed.

"Many think she is just a pampered little girl," Iroh whispered as Azalea broke into the second verse. "And while this is probably the truth, it cannot smother her true talent."

Zuko's attention fell back onto the pretty singing woman, her flamboyant skirts awhirl about her, blood-red earbobs gleaming, her heavy black lashes starred and her angled eyes bright. Her hair had been twisted so elaborately, so perfectly into its ornate style, that even the constant tosses of her head could not arouse the secured locks. Certainly, she had all the makings of someone childlike and naïve, but her voice was not the tinny shriek of a spoiled girl. It was velvety and beautiful and wise.

It was—like mother…

A lukewarm feeling sluiced over Zuko as he tipped his gaze to his feet. It was happy, yet painful, a tickling warmth that should have been soothing but instead touched upon raw wounds and made them sting. He writhed uncomfortably as this strange emotion assaulted him, took seize of his body. Azalea hummed and sang from below their broad dais, and he felt a sudden guilt crash against the queer feeling bubbling in his chest.

What right did he have to judge Azalea? Just because she wore pretty dresses and tossed her head and made her earbobs dazzle did not necessarily mean she was shallow. Perhaps it was an act; just a cleverly-constructed bravado to make her appear wealthy and carefree. In any case, he had no right to unleash such skeptics upon her—he was a prince, after all, and of much higher rank than the noblewoman. That was why he was seated in this high-backed, velvet seat with golden tassels, watching her sing and dance below his grandly raised podium.

Shouldn't he be just as spoiled as she, if not more?

A frown creased Zuko's lips. Yes…he _should _be, and in many ways he had never suffered. It did not know the agony of clawing hunger or the brutality of laboring under a hot vengeful sun. He was not accustomed of the stiff muscle aches that came from yanking a plow when the mule was injured or the cold pit the forms in your stomach from poverty.

And yet…_and yet…_

He was not carefree. Far from it. He found himself struggling through the polished corridors of his home; a smothering sensation that lay within the mahogany furniture and the fine ornaments that adorned everything. There was something very dead about them, very empty, akin to the gaping hollowness in his heart. And his body felt strained somehow, overwrought with a terrible pressure, something dense and strenuous and impossible to endure. It was a pressure that had doubled since his father's crowning, made his breathing ragged and his determination steely.

He had to work hard. So very hard. He had to push himself to the bitter edge, then fling off that ledge and simply drown until he defeated the perpetual challenges that besieged him. It was a force that was splintering him; he could feel it in the marrow of his bones, desperate, aching; tiring.

But—what was the cause of such stress? What had him so hassled and utterly hopeless?

His eyes fell upon a looming silhouette, a long strip of black against the thrashing shadows of flames in their braziers. Lord Ozai was erect and stern; his eyes cold marbles, his mouth a listless slash. Zuko felt that same ache in his chest, that hard yearning that went forever unquenched. He wanted his father to be proud of him. That was what caused him to drag himself forward so painfully, to bleed and subject himself to misery, to work tirelessly and try again and again.

But the man always rejected him with stony inattentiveness. He referred to Azula as "my dear" and praised her in quiet tones of deep approval, but merely frowned and brushed away Zuko's every attempt. To him the boy was soft and incapable; a nuisance, a letdown. The thought stabbed Zuko like a knife. He had to prove himself. He had to fight. He had to struggle. Otherwise, his father would never be proud of him.

Otherwise, his father would never love him.

All at once, Zuko did not feel like a prince. He felt weak and pathetic and utterly worthless. He stared down at his supple white hands and found them just as limp and useless as he. They could not wield arcing blue daggers of lighting or deadly bursts of flame; they were balmy and easily bruised. He was an insignificant dot lost in the vast magnificence of Azula's shadow.

He was unwanted. The revelation left him feeling bereft and bitterly alone. He was a failure, a mere embarrassment unto Lord Ozai, and he needed to work to gain an honorable titles. Things that so many people—even peasants, perhaps—took as expected luxuries were impossible dreams hovering far out of his grasp. His father would _not_ simply love him for being his son. Zuko needed to work and strive and bleed harder than any laborer in a field to experience such a fantastical thing.

He was not a spoiled prince.

There was a hand on his shoulder. "Zuko, are you alright? You look peaked."

Iroh's voice sounded far away. Zuko strained to hear it.

"Yes, Uncle," he replied somewhat breathlessly. "I was just…was just…thinking…"

The deadpan word rolled off his tongue in a soft whisper. His gaze tilted back to the woman whose voice sounded like bells, her pitch heightening to a dazzlingly beautiful climax.

_"You cradle close to your heart, _

_The body of a dear beloved, _

_Dead, forgotten, in your arms, _

_This is indeed a dream unwritten _

_This is indeed a forgotten dream…" _

Zuko's heart ceased beating as sound and reality melted away; all his previous musings washed away by a single thought, one that stood out bold and black in his mind. The warmth of his body seemed to drip out of his fingertips, leaving him cold and empty. The song dwindled to a mystical finish, Azalea's clear voice resonating throughout the dying melody, but Zuko could not hear it. He stared blankly ahead.

_"You cradle close to your heart—"_

An image was being painted in Zuko's mind. Something he had never even fathomed before. The prostrate body was lying in a pool of crimson blood, beneath a slate of starless sky, hair tangled and eyes unfocused. It was colorless and jaded and drained of all hope.

_"The body of a dear beloved—"_

A boy entered the scene now, sobbing and screaming, pulling the woman's limp head into his lap. Her skin was mottled with bruises and streaked with fresh blood; it streamed in gushing red rivers all over his palms. He touched her cold cheek, attempting fruitlessly to arouse her, but the woman remained frozen in her deathly stupor.

_"Dead, forgotten, in your arms—"_

The boy knew that she was dead. Beneath half-sunk, flaccid lids, her eyes would be pale and clouded; empty marbles that held no glimmer. Her body was stiff and heavy in his arms, unresponsive as he burrowed his face into her knotted tresses and cried. She was dead in his arms and forgotten by all. The world had no place for her now. It was gray and steely and _cruel _as rain dropped from the heavens…

_"This is indeed a dream unwritten—"_

He held only an echo of what was a grand lady. Her beautiful robes were tattered and torn, hair an unruly mop, skin littered with abrasions. If his arms locked around her in an embrace, it would be cold and rigid. If his contorted face pressed itself against her neck, he would not feel the warm thrumming of her pulse. If he snuggled close and whispered his darkest fears, her face would remain slack and expressionless. He had wanted her to see so much, had wanted her to be so proud. But such far away, surreal dreams those were now, all unwritten chapters never to transpire.

"_This is indeed a forgotten dream—"_

What had been forgotten? The dream? Was he dreaming now? Was this all a dream? Was everything a dream?

Was he even…real…?

"Zuko!"

Iroh had twisted completely around in his chair, hands clamped down on Zuko's shoulders in a viselike grip. Despite this, the boy continued to heave and shudder, his eyes wild and glassy as they rolled from side to side. Iroh's eyes, however, were still in his craggy face, boggled yet transfixed solely upon his frantic nephew.

"Zuko, what's wrong—"

"Mom!" he cried frantically. "Mom! She died—she died and—and it's _m-m-my _fault! All my fault! I know it is! Mom's dead! She's dead—she's dead—"

He could hear nothing over the din of his own shouting. Tears were sliding down his cheeks, wet hot tears, but he could not feel them as the words spilled from his lips. He could feel nothing but a bone-chilling panic.

"She's _dead _and gone forever—"

Down below, Azalea's almond eyes had widened to plates, her slender fingers pressed against her mouth in unspeakable horror. A series of mortified squeaks issued from the depths of her throat, slight shrieks that went unheard and unnoticed. Her perfect white skin had paled considerably, her body stock-still and completely rigid. Behind her, the fluttering music had died and all eyes were fixed upon the shuddering prince.

Iroh tried to placate the boy's nerves.

"Calm down," he kept insisting. "Calm down and think about what you're saying. Everything is alright—"

"It's _not _alright!" Zuko had wailed in return. "I can't ever be! Mom's gone forever! I thought—I hoped—but she's _dead—"_

His eyes locked upon Iroh's, and they were the blank despairing eyes of a mourner who cannot shoulder his loss. It was as if all life had seeped through the cracks in his broken eyes, leaving them dead and barren, like dark plains where only sheer panic ravaged.

Iroh had seen his nephew in many moods, but never like this.

He disregarded his brother's piercing glare as he stood from his seat, pulling Zuko bodily from his chair. The child stumbled and sobbed, barely coherent as Iroh steered away from the gaping audience through a backdoor.

Zuko did not look back at his father. Perhaps, had he, the tears flowing from his eyes would have halted midstream. For Lord Ozai was sitting stiff and imposing, his features carved out of marble; his cold yellow eyes limned with hatred. Dark brows were tilted slightly downward in a precarious gesture. Although only the faintest frown creased his white lips, something hidden and dangerous lurked beneath it, a dark brutality. His forearms were crushed against the padded arms of his chair, his fingertips digging into the crimson cloth like talons ripping bloody flesh.

Azalea waited until the footsteps died away.

"Oh, oh, please Lord, I—I meant no harm! Forgive me, please, I…I beg of you!"

She crumpled into a very pathetic bow, her skirts fanned out in a sea of red satin, her furrowed brow pressed flat against the floor. The cold metal shot chills up her spine, though she did not shiver. She did not do anything. Her mind had frozen completely; all reasonable thought vanished, so that only a terrible shadow crept across it. Terror was like ice in her blood.

She had made the boy cry. She had made the boy cry. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she had prodded and jabbed the poor child until he screamed for his mother. And this man, this frighteningly reserved, coolly observing man, was going to kill her for it. She had made the boy cry, and this was her penance. Lord Ozai was going to kill her, here, before his daughter and the vocalists—

"Rise and sing."

The voice was blatant, dead. Azalea barely heard it over the chaotic roar in her ears.

"Do you mean to defy me, Lady Azalea of the Murasaki Family? Rise and _sing." _

The faintest inkling of light touched her black thoughts. He wanted her to…sing? But—but—the prince! And that quiet contempt that blazed so softly, so powerfully, in his eyes. Was it not for her?

Shakily, she climbed to her feet, her mind still dim and frantic. Lord Ozai had leaned forward, however, his chin resting against his long interlacing fingers. As he watched her, a strange gleam lit his eyes, like a cat toying with a butterfly that had fluttered to close to its paw.

The vocalists struck a very hesitant melody behind her. Azalea's hazed thoughts raced. What was she supposed to be doing? Everything seemed so clouded and far away. Then a silver note fell upon her ears, and a single thought permeated her mind: _sing. _

She opened her mouth and liquid song poured forth, though later she would not remember the words her voice had rang with. She sang for many hours, much longer than had been prescribed; guided only by the vague melodies that drifted to her ears from behind. She did not notice the unyielding gaze that Lord Ozai had fixed upon her. She sang with a loyal obedience that knew no boundaries. At that moment, she would have heedlessly plunged a dagger into her midriff, had he only commanded it.

It was a submission fueled by fear, and he knew it.

A subtle smile tugged the man's lips.

_Perfect. _

**A/N: **Er, yes, ignore the song. Just my attempt at poetry. Well, here was my first chapter. It centered a lot on things that _already _happened—so that's why there wasn't much action. The next chapters should have more. Please tell me what you think of Azalea. Thanks for reading—and, of course, please review!


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